


moonlight making crosses

by TheFlirtMeister



Category: Hemlock Grove
Genre: Alcohol, First Kiss, M/M, Partial Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 09:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14829365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFlirtMeister/pseuds/TheFlirtMeister
Summary: Peter huffs and steps closer to Roman, till they’re almost nose to nose. Roman takes a deep breath, in and out, blowing hot stale air into Peter’s face.“Trying to intimidate me?” Peter asks. “It’s not working.”“Shut up.” Roman says.





	moonlight making crosses

**Author's Note:**

> i've wanted to write this for a while, i hope u guys like it! *finger guns*

The first time they kiss, Roman is drunk and should know better. Which is, of course, the story of his life.

They’re searching for dead bodies, Peter trying to sniff out the stink of death, and Roman wondering why curdled blood seems so appealing lately. He has a bottle of corner store vodka loosely held in one hand, the cap of it lost a few streets ago, and he keeps drinking from it, grimacing with each sip.

Peter glances over, catching him mid gulp. Peter’s eyes glitter in the dark, and his hair is greasy. He needs a wash, he needs Roman to put him in a bath tub and hold him down until he’s clean. Roman imagines bubbles struggling to the surface, Peter’s hand gripping Roman’s wrists to try and make him let go.

“Don’t drink man.” Peter says, sounding annoyed. “I don’t want the cops on us.”

Roman raises the bottle. “The cops are onto us anyway.”

Roman has a criminal record that would make a grown man proud. He is half pleased and half disgusted with himself, but tries not to think about it too much, as he stares at Peter’s back, the decal on his jacket.

Peter doesn’t reply, only shakes his head, continuing to walk. Roman glares, wanting more of a reaction. He wants fireworks. Yelling. Claws at his throat.

“Gypsy.” He slurs instead, stopping in his tracks. “Faggot.”

Peter stops walking. He turns to face Roman, a hard look across his face. Roman steps from one foot to the other, pleased.

“You fucking alcoholic.” Peter tells him. “Jesus. You’re just like Nicolae, you know that?”

“Another gypsy.” Roman says. “But the best kind. A dead one.”

“Roman.” Peter says, sounding annoyed, but not angry. “I’ll hit you.”

“Do it.” Roman dares, tilting his jaw.

“Give me the bottle.” Peter holds out his hand. “Come on.”

“No.” Roman tightens his grip. “I won’t.”

“Then go home.” Peter says. “I don’t want you causing attention.”

Roman gestures to them both. “Even if I wasn’t drunk, we’d still…. Still cause attention.”

Peter looks at Roman, his gaze traveling from Roman’s expensive shoes right up to Roman’s face. Roman wets his lip, staring back at Peter, his eyes going in and out of focus. He doesn’t like it, the way Peter judges him. Like Peter is better than him.

“Come here.” Roman says.

Peter raises an eyebrow. “You ordering me around now Godfrey? Think I’m one of your servants?”

“Come here.” Roman repeats, almost going cross eyed with the effort to look Peter in the face.

Peter huffs and steps closer to Roman, till they’re almost nose to nose. Roman takes a deep breath, in and out, blowing hot stale air into Peter’s face.

“Trying to intimidate me?” Peter asks. “It’s not working.”

“Shut up.” Roman says.

This close, he can see every mark on Peter’s face, every scar and scrape and scratch. Peter’s eyelashes are dark, and Roman knows from going through Peter’s bedroom drawers that he sometimes wears eyeliner pencil, scraping it across his waterline. What Roman originally thought were freckles were in fact dirt, speckled across Peter’s cheeks and nose.

“You have a scar on your cheek.” Peter says. “Finally, Roman Godfrey has a flaw.”

He sounds sarcastic, but Roman ignores it, still staring into Peter’s green eyes.

“A chain-link fence when I was 12.”

“What happened?” Peter asks, sounding actually interested.

“Kids didn’t like me.” Roman says.

“Not many people do.” Peter says. Roman watches his lips pronounce the words, the way they are scabbed and cracked. They form an o when Peter says certain words.

“Kiss me.” Roman says.

“What?”

“Kiss me.” Roman repeats, staring into Peter’s eyes until it burns.

There is a moment of tension, and then Peter brings up his hand to cup the back of Roman’s head. Roman leans easily into the kiss, letting his eyes flutter shut as Peter fits their mouths together. He pushes his entire body against Peter as they kiss, but Peter is firm, unyielding.

The vodka is slick on Roman’s tongue, he wants it replaced with the texture of Peter’s own. He wants to feel nothing but Peter, he wants his DNA, his blood pumping under Roman’s skin. If he could unzip his body, shrug off his skin, become a mound of red wet flesh and stuttering veins, Roman would do it in a heartbeat. Peter is better, in every way.

Roman pulls away, even though he wants to keep going. His mouth is kiss-stained, and he presses the back of his hand against his lips. Peter doesn’t say anything, looking at Roman with a soft, sad expression.

“Forget this. Forget what I did.” Roman says, waving the hand that has the bottle in, as if trying to cast a magic trick. Vodka splashes everywhere and Roman curses. “Fuck.”

He wipes vodka from his jacket, and then drops the bottle on the pavement where it smashes into shards. The sound is noisy, painful, and Roman finds he likes it.

“Come on.” He says, looking up at Peter. “We have dead bodies to find.”

“ _Some memories should be dead as they are like living corpse in mortal's bed_.” Peter quotes, and then starts to walk. “My mother taught me that.”

“Your mother is a good person.” Roman says, tripping over his own feet and grabbing hold of Peter’s arm to steady himself. He is glad that Peter will never remember the kiss. He hopes that later, he will be so drunk that he can’t remember it either.

“There aren’t many good people on this earth.” Peter looks up at the sky, where the stars pierce the darkness. “But she’s one of them.”

“I’m not a good person.” Roman says.

“I know.” Peter says, as they reach the edge of the words. “Neither am I.”

Roman smiles, raising his knuckles to wipe the blood from his nose, the only sign that Roman has used his gift. He pulls his hand away, just as they are about to walk into total darkness, and looks down at moon-white skin.

There is no blood.

**Author's Note:**

> pls comment if you enjoyed!!


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